"It was really very touching," pursued Col. Gaston, "to hear them talk of the past and of the present. Cole told of his army life—how at the age of nineteen he had been promoted to a captaincy in the Confederate army. He spoke of the murder of his father and of his career since the close of the war. 'My exploits in the army were exaggerated,' said he, 'just as my exploits as an outlaw have been exaggerated. In one instance I have been too highly praised, and in the other grossly wronged.'
"I learned from their own lips the story of their prison life. Cole Younger is a changed man. I found him positively entertaining. He converses with a correctness, fluency and grace that are charming. None of the brothers are compelled to do very much work; they spend a great deal of their time reading in their cells. Jim is reading law books and Bob is studying medicine; Cole seems to have developed a theological turn of mind. These three men are great favorites in the prison—they are looked up to by their companions as sort of demi-gods, creatures immeasurably above the ordinary inmates of the penitentiary."
"The most dreadful feature of their life," said Col. Gaston, "is the fact that though they occupy adjoining cells, they are not permitted to converse with each other. It is only once a month that they can meet and talk to one another, and then only for a few moments. They told me that they prayed earnestly every night that the month might pass quickly. It was touching beyond expression to hear Cole speak of his early days. His misspent life he charges to the faults of his early training. He says he was taught to be ruled by his passions and his passions alone. And as he talked in this vein the tears came into his eyes and I felt that he was indeed a penitent man. He inquired after his old army friends, and I told him what I knew of them and their whereabouts. In the course of our conversation the James Boys were mentioned. 'Do you believe Jesse is dead?' I asked. Cole straightened up, glanced quick as a lightning flash at his brothers on either side of him, and replied, 'He is, if George Shepherd says he is.' I asked him what he meant, and he answered: 'There are sometimes two things alike in the world, and Jesse James and George Shepherd were as near alike as they could be, in character, I mean. Both are quick, nervous and brave. Jesse was so nervous that sometimes he did things rashly.' As Cole said this he leveled out his right arm as if he were aiming a pistol. Instantaneously it struck me that he sought to convey the impression that it was Jesse James who perpetrated the Northfield bank murder in a moment of nervous rashness. But the subject was pursued no further. As we left them I felt that we were leaving the most wretched and hopeless of men."
Col. Gaston said that upon his return from his interview with the Youngers, inspector Reed told him the following, which has never before been made public: "A short time before the Northfield robbery," said the inspector, "I was on my way home to St. Paul from a point in Iowa. I endeavored to secure a Pullman car berth, but found that I had been preceded by two men who had engaged eight berths—the only ones remaining in the car. Later, however, I was informed that I could have one of the berths, as one of the party had failed to put in an appearance. As I sat in that car that evening a man wearing a slouch hat sat directly behind me; in the seat opposite him was a man whom I subsequently discovered was Cole Younger. While thus seated, a big, boisterous countryman, accompanied by his young lady, entered the car and demanded my seat. 'We've been to a dance and are tired'—that was his apology. I told him that his lady could sit beside me, but I didn't propose to yield my seat to a man. As we were arguing, the man in the slouch hat came over and said to me quietly, 'Why don't you throw the d—d yahoo out of the window?' I made no reply, whereupon he turned to my persecutor and said, 'Here, you d—d loafer, if you don't go about your business I'll throw you off the train. You have been dancing and enjoying yourself and I guess you can stand up awhile. This gentleman has a long way to travel, he has paid for his seat, and by G—d, he shall keep it.' This was quite enough. The big man moved off. The next day, when I was in my bank, in walked the two strange men who had secured the berths on the car. They asked for a bank almanac of last year. I told them we had none to spare; that the almanacs were issued to banks alone and were really invaluable. Then they asked if they could borrow an almanac of the previous year, and I said yes, if they would be sure to return it. As I passed it over the counter the man in the slouch hat pushed a ten dollar bill toward me. 'Take this,' said he, 'so you will be compensated if we should fail to return the book.' I reminded him he had promised to return the book—that it was part of a file and could not be spared. He insisted, however, that I should retain the money, because something might occur preventing the return of the almanac. Well, the book never came back. Three days later the Northfield Bank was robbed, and shortly afterward I identified Cole Younger as one of the two men who had taken the almanac from me. From the descriptions I have read and the pictures I have seen of the men, I am satisfied that the other man, the man with the slouched hat, the one who came to my rescue on the train, was the notorious outlaw, Jesse James."
ANECDOTES OF JESSE AND FRANK JAMES.
Sometimes incidents, in themselves trivial, serve to reveal the character of persons connected with them better than those actions which are esteemed as more important. The James Boys are robbers, but nevertheless they are still capable of generous actions. It may be that the remembrance of former days sometimes disposes their minds to the contemplation of the true, the beautiful and the good in humanity. Jesse James was once baptized, and became a member of a Baptist church in Clay county, Missouri, and it is said that for a considerable time before the war, his conduct was exemplary in the highest degree. But he has since sadly fallen from grace.
Some years ago a tenant on the Samuels farm had a difficulty with the mother of Jesse and Frank. In the heat of passion he denounced the old lady as a liar. Jesse heard of the affair, and, as he always exhibited the warmest affection for his mother, those who knew of the circumstance fully expected that the tenant would be called to account in the usual way by Jesse James. One day the offending tenant was engaged in some domestic labor near his home and adjacent to a corn-field, when suddenly there was a rustling of the dry corn-blades and the next instant the dreaded outlaw leaped his horse over the fence and dashed up to the affrighted citizen with a heavy revolver ready cocked in his hand. "I have come to kill you!" he said, at the same time making an ominous motion with the pistol. "Did you not know better than to call my mother a liar? Now, if you want to make your peace with God, you had better be at it." The poor man dropped upon his knees and began to pray. As he proceeded, he became more and more fervent. He asked God to pardon his transgressions and have mercy upon him. Then he commended his loved ones to the protecting care of that Beneficent Being to whom alone they could look, now that he was so soon to be taken away from them. The prayer had become pathetic in its earnestness. As the man proceeded, the hard lines in Jesse James' features relaxed, a shade of sadness stole over his countenance, the muzzle of the pistol was unconsciously lowered, and when the poor frightened farmer had finished, the look of stern resolve was all gone, and the outlaw's pistol had been sheathed. "I cannot kill you thus," he said, "but you must leave the country," and Jesse James wheeled his horse and disappeared as he had come.